Herbert had a habit that occasionally startled guests.
People would be over. We would be talking. Everyone would be having a perfectly nice time.
And then, at some point, Herbert would simply be done.
Not with the friendship.
Not with the evening.
Not because someone had said something wrong.
He was just done talking.
So he would walk away from the conversation and sit down at his computer.
The computer was in the same room.
This tended to produce a particular expression on the faces of our guests.
Eyes slightly wider.
One eyebrow raised.
A quick glance in my direction that clearly meant:
Did we just do something?
And I would say:
“Oh, he’s full.”
That was it.
He had reached capacity.
Herbert wasn’t angry. He wasn’t bored. He hadn’t suddenly decided he didn’t like you. In fact, he might have been having a wonderful time.
He simply didn’t want any more of it.
For a long time, I thought of this as one of those Herbert things. A slightly peculiar but ultimately harmless feature that occasionally required translation for people who didn’t know him well.
Only much later did I realize he had taught me something.
I’m done now does not mean I don’t like you anymore.
Those are entirely separate statements.
This should probably be obvious.
It isn’t.
We stay at parties long after we want to leave because other people are still having fun.
We remain in conversations after we have stopped having anything to contribute.
We accept the next invitation, the next drink, the next hour, the next whatever, because saying I’ve had enough feels perilously close to saying I’ve had enough of you.
So we stay.
And then, because we stayed past full, something that had been genuinely enjoyable becomes exhausting.
Herbert didn’t do that.
When Herbert was full, Herbert stopped eating.
Metaphorically, usually.
Although now that I think about it, literally too.
There was no complicated subtext attached to it. No expectation that somebody else should notice his capacity approaching and rescue him. No need to invent an early meeting or a headache or some other socially acceptable reason for being finished.
He was simply full.
And living with someone who treated that as perfectly ordinary eventually taught me that I could do it too.
I can enjoy someone enormously and still want to go home.
I can have a wonderful conversation and not want another hour of it.
I can be someone’s ride somewhere and, when I’ve reached my limit, say, “I’m heading back. You’re welcome to come with me, but if you want to stay, awesome! You’ll just need to find another ride.”
They can stay.
I can leave.
Nobody has done anything wrong.
This turns out to be particularly useful when you are an introvert who likes extroverts.
Some of the people I most enjoy seem to possess social batteries manufactured by an entirely different company from mine. They can keep going. They can talk to three more people, go somewhere else afterward, make two new friends on the way to the parking lot, and possibly still be talking when I am already in pajamas.
Excellent.
They should do that.
I don’t have to.
And the lovely thing is that once you understand this, leaving doesn’t have to diminish what came before it.
Sometimes I leave because I had a wonderful time.
I don’t need to stay until the wonderful time deteriorates into me wondering how quickly I can get home without technically violating any traffic laws.
I can go while I still like everybody.
It took me a long time to realize what Herbert had given me with those abrupt departures to his computer.
He gave me permission to recognize capacity.
To stop confusing affection with availability.
To understand that enjoying something does not create an obligation to keep doing it until everyone else is done.
And perhaps most importantly, to trust that the people who know me will learn the translation, just as our friends learned Herbert’s.
She’s not upset.
You didn’t do anything.
She likes you just fine.
She’s full.
Because being full isn’t a judgment on the meal.
Sometimes it means the meal was wonderful.
You simply don’t need another bite.
